


Figures in a Dream

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, Gore, M/M, Mention of Past Abuse, Nightmare Imagery, Post-Canon, laurent has ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Laurent wakes from a dream.





	Figures in a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> “There are many who don't wish to sleep for fear of nightmares. Sadly, there are many who don't wish to wake for the same fear.”

Laurent hated dreaming.

To fall into a deep enough sleep that he might not hear someone's quiet step into the room, to have his rest interrupted by random flashes of light, of color, useless memories tangled up in the lines of whatever he'd seen that day, whoever he'd spoken to. 

Nightmares had plagued him in the first months after Auguste's death, and even now his brother would occasionally still come to him in the night, face cleaved in half by an Akielon blade, gabbling at him with a flopping tongue freed by his severed jaw. He would shamble through the halls of Aquitart, gurgling uselessly for help while Laurent wedged himself under a table, trying to keep himself from moaning in terror. 

But any man can tell you that far worse than a nightmare is a pleasant dream, one that fades too quickly into harsh reality upon waking. He'd dreamt of battles won, the exhilarating rush of plans carefully laid out and finally clicking perfectly into place. Victory over his uncle, a street full of cheering onlookers and fluttering blue and gold banners on the day of his coronation. 

And--

He curled smaller between the sheets, clinging to the last shreds of the dream as it was pulled away from him. Love, he'd been in love, had felt it in a way he hadn't felt anything since that day at Marlas. Intimate moments by candlelight in the warm, close confines of a tent, so aware of his lover's closeness and how quickly his heart was beating and how he ached to be touched. He'd turned his face up for a kiss, like the maiden in the stories. Strong arms wound around him and that feeling, the feeling of safety, of letting go after clinging on for so long, was like floating, was like flying.

He didn't want to go back. That was the peril of dreams: so perfect was the lie they spun around you that you wanted to stay in that cocoon forever. Reality was sharper and colder after a night of dreams like that.

The bed curtains were drawn, but through them Laurent could just make out pinpricks of sunlight. He'd overslept, by hours. Somehow he couldn't find it in him to care, couldn't even remember what he'd had scheduled for the day. Was this the day his uncle would be meeting with the Ambassador from Vask? Or was that next week? 

His stretching brought his fingers in contact with another body, and he jerked back, swallowing a cry of alarm. This wasn't his bed, the linens smelled wrong, the bed curtains were too thick and the hole in the corner that he'd used to look out of as a child was gone. Not his bed. Not his room. 

His uncle's room.

No. No, no _no--_

Laurent clutched at the sheets, trying to breathe evenly and then realizing in a panic that he was still nude, his hair in disarray, his neck and shoulders tender from the marks of someone's mouth. And his uncle still slept beside him, a dark shape on the other side of the bed that stirred sleepily as Laurent frantically tried to get space between them, the thick walls of the bed curtains pressing in, the sheets sliding away from his kicking feet.

And his uncle sat up. 

He palmed his hair away from his face and in a voice made low and gravelly by sleep, said, "Laurent?"

When Laurent's only answer was a sort of hysterical gasping, his uncle turned to open the bed curtains, jerking them apart so that midmorning sunlight cascaded in, flowing down over the rumpled sheets, the embroidered cushions, over Laurent's pale feet, curled into themselves. Over Damen's broad brown shoulders, across his dark hair, turning his morning mess of curls into a golden halo. 

Laurent said, "Damen," and then he was across the bed in that tight embrace again, the surge of relief leaving him shaking.

They were in Arles, for the first time since his coronation and their countries' unification. Not in his old quarters, nor the rooms the Regent had slept in. The King's bedchamber, enjoying a lazy morning after the festivities the day and night before. Waving banners and food and crowds of nobles and gold chains and jewels hanging heavily around his neck. When they'd retired to the bedroom, Laurent had murmured, "attend me." The memories unwound like a dropped spool of thread, looping through his mind and leading him back here, to this, to now.

Damen held him silently-- he was rarely up to saying much just after waking-- and Laurent pressed himself against him, taking in his skin, his scent. The reality of him and of them, together. After a while, Damen yawned, his chin grazing the top of Laurent's head, and said, "Bad one this time?"

"Turned out all right," Laurent replied, finally peeling himself away. "You were there when I woke."

**Author's Note:**

> I write a lot about Laurent's struggle with ptsd because I'm going through the same struggles-- panic attacks, flashbacks, and even waking up and believing that all the progress I've made was a dream, and that I'm back in the snake pit again. Luckily, Damen will always be there to catch Laurent whenever he trips over one of his traumas.
> 
> Visit me on my tumblah - @cyberphuck


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